There was a close-up shot of Anish in the photographs the detective agency had sent me. The tip of my forefinger lingered there resurrecting the memory of how his skin felt to my touch when I cupped his face between my palms. I instantly removed my finger like I had touched a live electric fence. I did not want to walk down that blind alley a second time.
When Rishit told me Anish had contacted him and wanted to come to his wedding and if I was okay with the idea, I had slumped on a chair not knowing how to react. My spontaneous reaction was an overarching urge to see him. Then the pain and anger followed and I didn’t want to see even his shadow. Then I wanted to sound mature and assured Rishit that I would definitely not have a meltdown seeing the erstwhile love of my life and promised him I would remain civil and cheerful facing the man who ghosted me 13 years ago.
If Rishit wanted him at his wedding I wouldn’t fuss about it. He was one friend who had been with me through thick and thin.
“See what I found while clearing the bookshelf today,” Rishit had said handing me a worn-out birthday card a few weeks ago.
I opened it to find my teen handwriting.
It read: To my best friend and the brother I always wanted.
“Oh my God. This was in Class VII I think. You still have it?” my eyes turned glassy. I felt a surge of emotion.
“Do you realise, you bro-zoned me at 12!” he pulled my leg.
“Thank God I did. Otherwise, you would have turned out like Anish,” I meant it as a joke but Rishit looked down awkwardly, as if he felt guilty.
“I have left my past behind, you should too, then we can crack a joke or two together,” I laughed.
How wrong I was. I had thought Anish and I would meet and greet at the wedding and that would be it. But it did not pan out like that at all.
Rishit’s wedding invitation had come on Facebook messenger. The more my mother tried to convince me that sending a wedding invitation via Facebook was rude, that I should have at least received a physical card by slow mail, I convinced her that times had changed; WhatsApp and Facebook were reasonable means to invite people.
Finally, when she accepted that a digital invitation was as courteous as a physical one, she swung into action. She got down to deciding what I should wear to the wedding.
I found this habit of hers very endearing as a school kid. My mother would take out my party dresses — I didn’t have more than a couple though — iron it and pair it with jewellery, purses and hair bands, and I would be one of the most well put-together girls at most birthday parties. When she took out the salwar suits or dresses during college, I went with her choice. But when I joined advertising and had some event to attend, I would find three sets of saris paired with earrings and necklaces on the bed, when I had actually decided to wear my pencil skirt and lace top. That’s when the disagreements started.
Most days, I was so tired after office that neither did I have it in me to fight her choice, nor did I have it in me to drape a cumbersome sari for an event where I needed to show my face for an hour at the most. Initially, I struggled not to hurt my mom’s sentiments. Then my outbursts started and then I was labelled the selfish, uncaring girl, who could not appreciate the efforts of her mother.
At this wedding, I was determined to wear my choice, a simple sari with a statement necklace I had bought from Singapore. In a strange way, I hung on to Singapore in every which way I could. Although I knew it was a closed chapter in my life, but it was a very important chapter. Maybe I was not yet ready to flip to the next one mentally, although physically, the pages had already been turned. Singapore slipped into my conversations very naturally, but I knew for a fact that many times I had been judged for throwing in the city on purpose, for driving home a point that I had lived there for 10 long years.
Sometimes I wondered what I missed most about the city. Initially I could not pin-point what it was. Was it the cleanliness, the discipline of the city and my own life? Was it the trips to the supermarkets with shelves that could reach the sky? Was it my few very close friends who were there at 2am when I had fever? Or was it my apartment on the 17th floor of a condominium with stunning views of the city?
It took me a year after I returned from that city, but I finally knew what it was I missed. It was my own space, just the simple ability to be myself. It was a rented home but still it was mine. The Calcutta apartment had been bought by me, I held the deeds, but it felt so alien. I had returned to my parents but I felt I didn’t belong in their life anymore. They had moved on leaving me behind.
As I put on the sari and then the lipstick standing in front of the mirror, my mother took out a box from her almirah and turned to me.
“I can’t imagine you are not wearing gold to a wedding,” she said.
I kept quiet. I knew she was trying to get her way, and through my silence, I wanted to have mine.
“Take this gold necklace,” she said after a few minutes.
“I am fine. I have decided on this one,” I said firmly, adjusting the neckpiece I was already wearing.
“All our old locality people will be there. They will think you don’t even have any gold.”
I knew her pressure tactics.
“You know I don’t care.”
“All my gold is lying in the bank locker; I didn’t even get an opportunity to give it at your wedding.”
I was getting on her nerves. She thought this dig would elicit the reaction she wanted from me — anger.
“You never know, you might get an opportunity when I am 50 or 60 maybe,” I joked.
She grimaced.
I noticed that fleeting dread on her face. She wasn’t really interested in my marriage anymore. She got alarmed if I showed any interest. I came with a security she enjoyed now — financial, physical and mental. She wasn’t willing to acknowledge that, neither was she willing to let it go.
“Take that off and wear this,” she said holding up the necklace.
Earlier, I would have just taken it and worn it and even appreciated her for taking an interest in me. I had turned strangely obstinate now. I looked for an ulterior motive in every move of hers.
Then I felt bad about it. She had stayed up late in the night when I studied for exams, she had made my favourite luchi-mangsho when I came back home from one and she had been the happiest when I passed with flying colours. She had been there when I had fights with my friends and came back home crying from play, she had nursed me during illness and had been really worried when the fever would not recede... and now… now I doubted her every action, wondered what if it was yet another manipulation. How much time had corroded our relationship.
I took the necklace from her and put it back in the box.
“Sometimes it’s nice to let me decide ma,” I said assertively.
She didn’t push further.
Looking at the mirror for a fleeting moment, I hoped Anish would still find me attractive.
Then I laughed at the audacity of my own thought. At 24, I probably looked my best. He left me then.
(To be continued)
Amrita Mukherjee is the author of the novel Exit Interview, short-story collection Museum of Memories and the crime non-fiction book The Secret Diary of a Criminal Lawyer. She blogs at amritaspeaks.in
Partha Mukherjee, popularly known as Kolkatacoffeeman, tells stories through coffee art. Through mindful listening and coffee-art sessions, he is creating unique conversations around mental well-being. Follow him on Instagram @kolkatacoffeeman